


Major Arcana

by Pepper (Zalt)



Category: Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic (Video Game)
Genre: Canon Divergence, F/M, SWTOR
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-08
Updated: 2019-09-08
Packaged: 2020-10-12 16:17:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20567261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zalt/pseuds/Pepper
Summary: Major Quinn is released from his imprisonment by Empress Acina, who makes him an offer he cannot refuse.





	Major Arcana

Day and night had no meaning in the depths of an Imperial prison. There were no barred windows offering a glimpse of the outside world, no exercise grounds naked to the skies. Food was delivered at regular intervals, but the intervals did not divide neatly into the hours of the day and could not be used to track the passing days. The armored guards rarely spoke, the helmets distorting their voices so he could not tell one from the other.

Malavai Quinn had explored the limits of his world when he was first confined to his cell by a sneering Lorman. ( _ Minister _ Lorman, the man had smugly insisted, and if Quinn had been willing to use the honorific his circumstances might have been different.) A standard cell, with standard measurements, and standard security. All according to regulation. A lesser man would have given up and resigned himself to his fate right then.

But Malavai Quinn (formerly Major Quinn, companion of the Emperor’s Wrath) was no lesser man, and his days of resigning himself to the circumstances the Empire placed him in had ended with his departure from inner exile on Balmorra. Between his knowledge of Imperial technology and routines, and with the assistance of Imperial soldiers still grateful for his intervention at the battle of Druckenwell, he had made a bid for freedom that was foiled at the last possible moment by sheer ill luck.

What little liberty he had known was taken away. He was moved (blindfolded, drugged and disoriented) by shuttle to a cell so identical to the original one in every detail that he was uncertain whether or not he had actually changed locations. He thought he remembered feeling the faint flicker of vertigo that sometimes accompanied a jump to hyperspace, but he had been too far under the influence of the drugs to be certain.

Whether or not it was the same cell, this time there were no friendly voices among the guards. No datapads to pass the time, no meals shared with other prisoners, no workouts in a prison gym. And no weaknesses in the security of the cell he could exploit. He made his own schedule as best he could in his isolation, timed by the (now less than generous) meals. Exercise, with what little energy he had to spare on minimal rations. Recitation of Imperial regulations, which at least comforted him that his memory was still working. Endless permutations of escape plans considered and mentally mapped out, ready for whenever a suitable occasion might arise. And fiercely rationed daydreams and memories of the happy days fighting at the side of his Lord Wrath.

* * *

He is at the edge of sleep, one of his hoarded memories fading and distorting as he drifts into sleep. A desert oasis, mirages shimmering in the wavering heat, a mirror image of the Wrath facing its original. Watching their confrontation from afar, as he did then, but this time it is the Lord Wrath fading into nothingness and the translucent, shadowy image that remains. It turns towards him, drifting closer, the brilliant yellow eyes it shares with his Lord focused intently on him as it speaks…

“Get to your feet, and get dressed.”

He starts awake to find two of the faceless guards looking down on him, two more glimpsed in the corridor outside. (Several branches of the ornate tree of his contingency plans collapse. Too many to take on, in his current state. Other branches unfold hopefully at the realization he is being taken out of the cell.)

He dresses with due alacrity, still taking care to get as close to his usual immaculate standard as possible. The prison uniform is carefully folded and clean, the punishment for his attempted escape fortunately not having extended to compromise basic hygiene. (“Yet”, whispers a treacherous corner of his mind, reminding him that another failed escape attempt will cost him whatever comforts he has left.) He smooths his hair back, getting it as close to regulation as he can without his usual hair products, and runs a hand regretfully over his chin. Nothing to be done about the beard, as much as he prefers to be clean shaven.

A small shift in the balance of one of the guards tells him their patience is at an end, and he falls in between them without further prompting, head held high as he walks out of the cell. (The other guards fall in ahead and behind, out of reach. Another branch collapses.) As they march him through the corridors he drinks in every detail, cataloging and evaluating. But no opportunities with acceptable odds of success present themselves. Perhaps his best chance will be once he reaches “Minister” Lorman. The snivelling coward would make a good hostage, unwilling to sacrifice himself.

A turbolift. Another corridor. Another lift, larger and more elaborate. And then they step outside it, into a broad thoroughfare lined with statues and decorations, alert soldiers stationed at each exit and crossing. He blinks, focusing on the familiar armor. Not soldiers. Guards.  _ Royal  _ guards. He doesn’t stumble, keeping his face expressionless as he keeps walking, but his brain is humming with possibilities and calculations.

Several minutes of brisk walking later (his legs shamefully burning at the unfamiliar exertion), and they leave the thoroughfare for a bridge crossing over to a separate spire of the building. A bridge revealing an achingly familiar skyline -- the unmistakable silhouette of Dromund Kaas, beating heart of the Empire. Flashes of lightning tear through the sky soundlessly, the transparent cover of the bridge swallowing thunder. The faintest of pre-dawn grey lingers between the flashes of light, outlining familiar buildings.

And this time his steps do falter, eyes burning with unshed tears, his chest tightening painfully. He’s  _ home _ , has been ever since his last transfer.

The guards prod him on as he hesitates, and he gathers himself as best as he can, wrapping the glimpse of the city in tightly and hiding it at the back of his mind among the treasured memories to keep him company in his solitude, once Lorman is done with him. If he survives. If he cannot escape.

The last view of the city disappears as they enter a dark archway, the gate within decorated with the Imperial cog. They stop silently for a few heartbeats (5,7 seconds, level three security scan, the analytical part of his mind supplies), and then the gate opens to let them in.

He knows where he is now -- royal guards, the tall spires of the central city around them. He is in the royal palace. The former Emperors residence. And as he is led down a final corridor to his destination, he finds his center again, sorting through possibilities. By the time they reach the last door his head is clear and his breathing easy. He straightens to attention as the door opens, and the guard announces: “Empress Acina, the prisoner is here.”

* * *

The power struggle in the Dark Council after the fall of the Emperor had not escaped his attention, but at the time his only interest in it had been in as far as it might help him in his search for the lost Wrath. He had long outworn his welcome among the existing Council members, and had held a hope that any new members who came in as a replacement for those falling to the power struggle might be willing to listen to his pleas for more resources in his attempt to find the Wrath.

His hopes had been dashed when the Council re-formed around the surviving members, consolidating the power of the Empire on fewer hands than before, now under the oversight of a new ruler: Empress Acina, former head of the Sphere of Technology.

Empress Acina, who is now in front of him, wearing training armor in the imperial colors, powering down a magenta lightsaber as the training droids she has been sparring with return to standby mode. She attaches the saber to her belt, pausing to drink a glass of water from a crystal carafe before turning to him

Even as intimately familiar as he is with the presence of the mightiest of the Sith, the weight of her power still descends on him with a pressure that takes his breath away when her bright orange eyes meet his own midnight blue. It’s like staring into the core of a star, or the molten center of a barely dormant volcano. An instinctive, animal fear makes his heart race, but at the same time he is drawn to her, desperately wanting to make the leap to be immolated and consumed by her fire. He has felt nothing like it since he lost his Lord Wrath. No, not even then. The Wrath had always kept a distance between them, a carefully controlled boundary. It was what had allowed him to plot his ill-fated betrayal despite their closeness, and what had allowed the Wrath to forgive him later, accepting some responsibility for not realizing the struggles he had been going through when caught in the power struggle between the Wrath and their master.

He feels his legs weaken with the desire to kneel before her. But the Empire does not appreciate weakness, and neither will she. So he fights the compulsion, his emotions revealed only in the intensity of his voice as he greets her and declares his allegiance. “My Empress.”

“Major Quinn.” The implicit restoration of his rank would have filled him with joy under any circumstance, and is heightened now by hearing the words directly from his Empress. “You will be pleased to know that the former Minister Lorman is no longer among us.” She beckons him closer, and he obeys gladly. “I have annulled his decision to incarcerate you, and fully restored your former status as a valued officer of the Empire.” 

Her every gesture and word is controlled and filled with power and promise. And she is beautiful, he realizes. The inhuman brightness of her eyes is the only sign of the Dark Side corruption that usually mars the most powerful of the Sith, her skin unveined and healthy, smooth except for thin lines around her eyes and mouth that are no different from the result of normal aging. Her hair is more grey than brown, but thick and healthy and currently coiled up in a precise hairdo without a single loose strand to show for her recent training. He finds himself wondering what it would feel like, to touch her cheek and slide his hand into her hair, making it tumble free.

His eyes widen in horror at the unbidden direction his thoughts have taken. Even a lesser Sith can read the emotions of those in their vicinity, if not their thoughts, and he is within arms length of the most powerful Sith in the Empire, locked in her gaze.

He expects the crushing force of the Empress’ will to seize him, crushing his airways, snapping his neck and discarding him without the hesitation and mercy that once stopped the Wrath from killing him after his treason.

But the Empress… smiles. It is only the faintest tug on the corner of her mouth, but unmistakably a smile as he has never seen on any of the official footage of the Empress, even in her former role as Darth Acina. 

“I brought you here because I have a use for you, Major. You have unique knowledge of someone who might be the Empire’s greatest hope or its ultimate downfall. I offer you a position at my side as Advisor to the Empress, for the glory of the Empire.”

And this time, he yields without hesitation to the compulsion, sinking to his knee in front of her.

“I cannot think of a more glorious way to serve the Empire. I am yours to command, my Empress.”

As the power of her approval and acceptance fills him, the chains of his old life fall away, and for the first time in his life he feels truly free.

The End

**Author's Note:**

> When Quinn returned after the timejump as advisor to Empress Acina my mind definitely Went There. She's just his type, isn't she? (Written and published during a train ride with extremely shoddy internet connection, pardon any lack of research and weird artifacts from trying to publish at pre-Y2K standards :D)


End file.
